


Dreams You Can't Recall

by EnchanteRhea



Category: Saiyuki, Saiyuki Gaiden
Genre: Implied Tenpou/Goujun, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnchanteRhea/pseuds/EnchanteRhea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kenren's knack for attracting all kinds of attention is both an excellent smoke screen and a source of Tenpou's amusement--until the day it inadvertently backfires on him and the entire unit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams You Can't Recall

**Author's Note:**

> Smut. Blood. Hints of plot. The art of letting go. Sort of in that order. Tiny canon divergence - see end of work for more notes; not listed here as it spoils the fic.
> 
> Set before Nataku's appointment as the Toushin Taishi. Pre-read by Shan. Much gratitude for reading. :) Feedback is love. Saiyuki belongs to Kazuya Minekura, and I'm just playing with the people she created. ;)

*nodachi - a military style katana

  


**Dreams You Can't Recall**  
by Rhea

  


  


*

He rarely remembers dreaming.

The dreams that Tenpou _does_ recall are usually dark and curious, odd metaphors for the thoughts he chooses not to share. When he wakes he welcomes them like old friends; there’s nothing in his mind he couldn’t face with ease, and even the craziest, bloodiest scenarios authored by his subconscious give him something to ponder.

The ones he can’t remember are obviously not worth it.

Sometimes Tenpou thinks he has some notion of what's coming. It's not a mystical ability that affords him the foreknowledge, no property of a god saddled with the gift of foresight. Cause and effect are good enough to go by; all you need to do is sit back and watch for your cue to step in and reap what you have sown.

And so, because it never hurts to be prepared, he has come to know the layout of the Western Army compound like the back of his hand. It will be useful one day, when the scales tip and he has to fight his way through these halls, when he can't afford to stumble or to lose his way because every second spent on reorienting himself will be a second wasted. His body knows it by rote: where and when to turn, where the walls end and the floors dip into staircases; he has the distances calculated and hardwired into his memory.

Someday, he’s certain of it, how well he knows the Palace complex will make a world of difference.

So when he wakes in the dead of night from a dream that might pass for nightmare in someone else's mind, Tenpou dances the deadly dance in the empty halls with his most trusted nodachi sure and tight in his grip; an extension of his arm and, maybe, of his soul. His eyes are closed, and the only sound is the faint slap of bare feet on tile, hardly there at all, and the slicing of air as the blade cuts through it at full speed. There’s no hesitation, not a single false move as Tenpou dances in the darkness. He has spent years honing his mind to battle-ready perfection (not yet, but getting there) so when the time comes, he can switch it off and do what must be done.

With sight out of the equation, his other senses flare with hyperactivity, every cell of his body in tune with his surroundings. Everything is energy and he feels the ripple of it through the air that clings to his skin; pulsating gently around inanimate objects, throbbing with sharp insistence around living beings. It makes him smile--it’s gorgeous, perfect, a dead giveaway. He trusts it on simple statistical probability: it saved him more often than it has failed, and sure enough, this well-learned sixth sense is triggered long before his ears pick up on muffled footfalls and the creaking of a leather duster.

From the shadows at the far end of the hallway, he is being watched.

He finishes the form unperturbed, landing on one knee with feline grace, sword jutting backwards underneath his arm. Had that final thrust ended its course inside living flesh, there would be a pleasing amount of blood trailing in his wake. Satisfied, Tenpou holds the position for the duration of two breaths and then he's dancing again.

He knows the tip of the blade halts half an inch from Kenren's face; no more, no less. He'd know it even if Kenren hadn't given his presence away, even if he'd never have pulled that move before. In the darkness Kenren's mouth makes a small noise as he gulps a lungful of air a little too loudly, making Tenpou shiver. He plants his feet on the floor and relaxes his stance.

“Can't sleep, General?” he asks, easy, conversational, poking the nodachi's tip just so under Kenren's chin.

Kenren laughs and it's like fire devouring a rainforest in one gluttonous swallow. "Nothing improves the evening quite like gettin’ threatened with pointy things."

As soon as he opens his eyes, this glorious, warm sensation will be gone, and right in this moment, Tenpou is content to hold on to the feeling just a little longer. Like a moth to Kenren’s flame, he thinks, aware of being pulled to where Kenren stands at swordpoint just outside his personal space, a radiating mountain of energy that prickles his skin. Kenren smells of tobacco and sake--scents both of them share--and then there's this _something_ underneath that tatters his edges: a whiff of wildness and freedom, hints of desire strong on its heels with a promise to erupt, again and again, without further warning.

“You were expecting me,” Kenren says, and though his voice is low and quiet--or maybe because it is--as it shudders through Tenpou’s body, a pleasant warmth follows.

“Hours ago,” he murmurs. There’s something entirely too enticing in the way he can almost tell by the rhythm of Kenren’s breathing how quickly his heartbeat skyrockets, right _there_ in front of him.

“Lemme guess. This--” Kenren taps the sharp edge, the motion sending it into minute tremors all the way to the hilt--”would be my punishment, _sir_?"

Tenpou considers it briefly, but then Kenren is pushing the sword away with his bare hand to the blade before he steps into his personal space and grabs the back of Tenpou’s head. It’s a split-second of one fluid motion and then he’s being turned and pushed into the wall and it’s all he can do to keep his grip on the hilt, lest the sword he’s still somehow holding clatter to the floor, making noise he doesn’t want to hear, attracting the attention of people he doesn’t want to see.

The wall is cool against his back, Kenren’s weight against him--Tenpou opens his mouth to make a suggestion and then his breath hitches as Kenren plants impatient hands on his hips and parts his legs with one knee, all careless, urgent insistence. His lips are burning from the kind of kiss only Kenren has ever given him--conjuring a storm at the ends of every last nerve.

Tenpou responds in kind, because oh, _this_ , the coil of desire unraveling inside him, the way his stomach clenches and his bones melt--there’s nothing in all of Heaven that even remotely compares.

“Sword,” he moans, head against the wall, opening his throat for _more_ , his free hand tangling in the lapels of Kenren’s coat, his nails raking beneath at the exposed skin.

“Clothes,” Kenren breathes against his ear as Tenpou’s head falls forward onto his shoulder, then swipes his hot, wet tongue along the line of his jaw, reaching that spot behind Tenpou’s ear which he damn well knows can shrink his clothing and send sparkles into a mad dance underneath his eyelids. Kenren’s hands paw their way under his shirt, teasing perky nipples again and again, and sweet heavens, he’s never been more awake or more aware of himself.

“Room,” Tenpou pants, because even if Kenren wasn’t doing that--oh, or _that_ \--with his tongue, knowing what else it might do and where is almost too much for his trapped erection.

Kenren clamps his teeth on the shell of Tenpou’s ear. “Coward.”

Tenpou shifts his weight, gives Kenren’s chest a one-handed push to knock him off balance. The nodachi sings through the air, lightning-fast; Tenpou blocks the flat of the blade against his free hand and holds it between Kenren and himself like a barricade.

“Shit.” Kenren’s laughter echoes in the hall. “You bastard, you’re swinging that thing at me with your eyes closed.”

Tenpou licks his lips. “I dare you to repeat that slight, General.”

“What? Oh, right.” There’s that laugh, easy and open and teasing, only marginally tighter under Tenpou’s threat. “Fine, fine. Room. Why the hell not? Might as well lay you down proper--"

Kenren breaks off as Tenpou's eyes snap open. His vision is clear, razor-sharp in the near-absence of light.

"There had better be nothing proper about the way you fuck me,” he manages on a heave of breath.

Kenren laughs again as he flips him a smart salute. “Understood.”

*

They crash into Tenpou’s office, stumbling over books and the most recent trophies from Down Below which Kenren hasn’t managed to put away for him yet. Kenren is so _hungry_ for him--it’s evident in how quickly his hands find their way back to him before the door closes behind them. Tenpou has half a mind to experience this the same way he did his solitary practice, with his eyes shut, focused only on what his other senses pick up. But Kenren is quite the sight to behold as he unclasps the skull chain and shrugs out of his uniform jacket, runs one hand through his short hair and rambles something about drinking--too much, or not enough? That aside, it might be too much indeed for Tenpou’s senses, unless he distributes the impulses evenly, and, ahh, there’s so much to--

An already lit cigarette is shoved into his parted lips.

“Have a smoke,” Kenren tells him. “You think too much.”

“Oh--” _Thinking_. Right. Despite his glasses, Kenren is out of focus somehow. Maybe they are smudged. “Thank you.”

The cherry glows so bright in the low light. Smoke tingles just so as it fills his lungs. It’s sharp and dry in his thirsty mouth, the familiar taste of Kenren’s brand of choice--not his own, but that’s all right. Tenpou takes another drag, briefly curious where his frog ashtray has vanished, and then he forgets that too when heat floods him from behind as Kenren helps him out of his lab coat. He’s less gentle with his tie, his shirt, his belt. Tenpou’s eyes water in a cloud of smoke and he takes off his glasses to rub away the itch there.

Kenren reaches out his hand. “Not looking for the spare in this mess if we break ‘em.”

He would, later, if they did.

They land on the floor soon after, a tangle of limbs and clumsily shed clothes. The first time it happened was quite like this, too. It usually is. Kenren crushes his mouth and his breath burns all the way into Tenpou’s blood, a fire that can’t, that won’t yield to anything, to anyone.

If Tenpou is sloppy with his housekeeping, Kenren is the same with his food, often also with his drinks--and certainly after he has had too many of them. He sure as hell is anything but sloppy with the way he takes care of Tenpou’s needs, when he’s in the mood.

And-- _ahh_ \--if those tiny, maddening circles painted around his nipple with Kenren’s eager tongue are anything to go by, tonight he obviously is.

Kenren growls low in his throat against the side of Tenpou’s neck; it lasts and lasts, like a large cat’s purr, sending tremors all the way to his toes. Tenpou feels strange, as if he’s floating as he’s pulled forward and up; he lets Kenren lead the way and they navigate the cluttered office floor. They don’t make it to the couch; Kenren walks backwards into Tenpou’s desk, knocking over something or other, and then Tenpou is being flipped again like he weighs nothing. Kenren’s muscles ripple beneath his tanned skin, but it’s no effort, really, to lift him up and position him on the desk.

The first time Tenpou objected to being manhandled by a subordinate. Then he offered himself as Kenren’s adjutant and learned to enjoy the perks.

He grips the edge of the desk as Kenren leans against him, reaches over his shoulder and fumbles in the top drawer, licking up and down the nape of his neck all the while. His tongue leaves patches of damp skin, raising goosebumps in its wake, and Tenpou moans as he quickly loses patience with the little nips of Kenren’s teeth here and there. Kenren’s free hand locks on his side, long fingers digging into his stomach, and Tenpou is quite sure he can hear himself urging him on under his breath.

The pressure of Kenren’s cock comes at him not a second too soon. It teases him for a while, rubbing hard and velvety as Kenren’s hips grind against him, once, twice, and then one slick finger hovers near his opening, touching and withdrawing until Tenpou trembles with minute spasms. He’s hard again in no time and reaches for himself but he’s stopped when Kenren’s hand wraps around his wrist, tugging it away.

“I want you to wait,” he pants behind Tenpou’s ear, and with the shuddering of his breath the last of his self-control threatens to escape. “It’ll be worth it, I swear.”

It takes a moment before Tenpou realizes Kenren took the massage oil out of his desk drawer instead of the lubricant. He searches for words to point it out just as Kenren’s both hands slide, languid and tender, up his sides, the slippery slickness voiding the usual rough feel of Kenren’s palms. He moves his hands inward and outward across Tenpou’s back in slow, circular motions, his cock reminding him of its presence all the while.

Those warm, strong hands stay on to press at just the right spots below Tenpou’s hips, producing the weirdest pressure-release rhythm that throws him completely off balance, while-- _oh_.

Tenpou’s mind blanks out for a second as Kenren bends behind him and his tongue laps its way from his balls upward, stopping at his opening to slide in and out a few times until Tenpou starts to pant.

“If you don’t stop teasing--”

“You’ll fuck me senseless?” Kenren’s hand slides between Tenpou’s thighs, long fingers reaching to squeeze his balls. “Why not?”

Tenpou growls, frustrated now in that aroused sort of way. Kenren was an excellent lover when they first met; by now he’s a master manipulator in bed as well, and Tenpou knows he only has himself to blame.

“Hold on,” Kenren tells him, and then Tenpou is being lifted from his lean. His head is spinning. It feels wonderfully like freedom.

“See, this,” Kenren says as he sweeps everything sans the stack of heavy books off the desktop in one quick, fluid motion of his arm, “is why keeping it neat is less troublesome.”

Tenpou stands there, bare and nearly trembling with suppressed _want_ and he decides, right in this moment, that if Kenren doesn’t hurry he’ll make sure the General gets buried under paperwork for the rest of the month. Unaware of the looming threat, Kenren circles the desk, slow like a cat sauntering around its unsuspecting prey and just as graceful; he pushes Tenpou’s chair out of the way and props one hip on the desk.

“I’ve got,” he purrs, “something you might be interested in, I think.” He braces one hand on the opposite end of the desk, hops on and rolls onto his back. Tenpou’s heart skips a number of beats even as his blood flows away from his brain and suddenly he knows exactly what he’s looking at.

Kenren is grinning stupidly as he looks at Tenpou upside down, licking his lips in that way of his. Tenpou’s knees shake as he takes a step and lets Kenren guide him into his mouth. He braces both hands on the desk beside each of Kenren’s shoulders even as glorious heat wraps him ‘round and ‘round. Kenren tilts his head back a bit more and takes him impossibly _deep_ , and Tenpou tries to think he should warn him that he won’t be able to hold back but he doesn’t trust himself with words right now. He does try to speak, but only a low growl comes out.

His hips are rocking on their own; he wants to thrust _so badly_ he’s dizzy with the need, and then Kenren begins to suck.

Tenpou loses himself in the wet heat of Kenren’s willing mouth, in the sound and the scent and the touch. He’s been there before. But somehow not like this, he thinks, and then his eyes fly open and his mind short-circuits as-- _oh_ \--

\--Kenren sprawled on his desk, chest heaving, the toned muscles on his stomach rippling, shifting--Kenren’s throat moving as he takes him in again and again and again--Kenren’s hands wrapped around his balls--Kenren’s own erection, hard and ready as he lies there shameless and beautiful and utterly _his_ \--

Too much.

Tenpou thrusts through all of that and maybe he’s going to explode and disappear and if he does, he won’t mind, because this is it, one of the things that make life worth living. Kenren’s back arches off the desk as he reaches to take his own cock in one hand; Tenpou’s arousal builds higher and higher until he very nearly bursts and then Kenren hums an impossibly low note that pushes him over the edge into one of the most intense orgasms in his entire long life. He cries out as he comes in Kenren’s mouth, and Kenren sucks him through it until he spends himself to the last and his legs threaten to stop holding him up.

He takes a moment to catch his breath before he slides out of Kenren’s mouth, gripping the edge of his desk for balance. Before he knows Kenren is there beside him, supporting him, kissing him, letting him taste himself on that agile tongue.

It will be a long while before Tenpou’s breathing calms down and he can wrap his mind around any of this. Or not--Kenren is nuzzling his ear and there’s a gentle pressure of a hot hand at his back telling him where to go. Which is good, because he can’t quite decide what exactly he should do with himself right now.

“Surprise,” Kenren purrs into his ear. Tenpou looks at him with squinted eyes and wonders about nothing particular, aware only that there’s nothing but this beautiful person in and around his mind. The moment his ability to string two coherent thoughts together somewhat returns, Tenpou heaves a long, open sigh.

“You,” he tries to say but has to clear his throat first. His voice is raw as if he has been screaming. Maybe he has. “You’ve been reading, I see.”

“Lookin’ at pictures.” Kenren grins. “Quite educational, I admit. Distracted me from the descriptions, m’afraid.”

Tenpou pushes him onto the couch; Kenren falls against it without any resistance and smiles wickedly at him.

“Well then.” Tenpou sizes him up as he decides he's actually quite sure what he'll be doing next. “Let me fill in some of those blanks.”

* 

When he wakes the next morning from blissfully dreamless sleep, Kenren is gone, the blanket beside him long cold. Tenpou smiles to himself; his General is not quite the type to stay around for breakfast.

It’s only when, hours later, he hears a dull commotion approaching from down the hall that Tenpou realizes he hasn’t seen Kenren since he’d drifted off to sleep, sated and spent, in the wee hours shortly before dawn. He perks up, expecting to hear Kenren’s voice over the voices of his men, laughing as he openly, unapologetically, suggests a night of drinking to celebrate the end of another good day.

Instead, the calls that find him behind his desk are tight and clipped over a tumbling storm of heavy duty boots, and dread like a tsunami wave floods the atmosphere, reaches him and crashes into his chest.

He already knows, he can feel it, the sheer, furious weight of it, and something clicks the wrong way inside him. It’s unlike him to freeze and feel instead of act and think, but here he is, quiet and still with arms and legs and spine turned leaden. For the shortest--longest ever--moment Tenpou can’t move or hear anything but his heartbeat, a rush of blood through his ears, and then the spell breaks and he’s on his feet and flying through the door, mind in overdrive.

*

The shitstorm Tenpou can and will unleash on whoever orchestrated the dispatch of Kenren’s unit behind his back has to wait. Until he’s absolutely certain Kenren survives the night, the murderous rage sits tight awaiting its turn, slow-cooking at the back of his head, in the pit of his gut.

He counts the Ants under Kenren’s command as they crowd in the cramped hall in front of the infirmary. They are four short, Tenpou notes, wondering if it’s the cause or the effect of Kenren’s injuries. These, the medical personnel informs him, are grave, though the soldiers had enough wits left about them to rush their General back to Tenkai after patching him up to the best of their skill. Saving his life, quite possibly.

They brought the bodies with them, too.

The sense of camaraderie and grief is thick in the air. The Ants of Heaven look to their Marshal to make this right somehow; Tenpou's mind unhelpfully supplies soaring speeches from the greatest commanders in the history of the Four Kingdoms, reforging pain into strength and loss into something of meaning, while the less socially awkward part of him knows all those men need--sans the miracle Tenpou can't perform--is his hand on their shoulders and someone--him--to assume control in Kenren’s unfortunate absence. Yes, it’s troublesome, but he can deal with it. The Ants ace any battlefield but here, now, they are restless, and though he knows he should channel it into something more productive than the aimless shuffling of feet, Tenpou decides to let them grieve.

Later--not tonight, certainly--there will be time to make sure they pull themselves together, and nudge them if they can’t. But Tenpou knows they will. They always do.

The thought of foul play has crossed his mind, of course. Kenren isn’t the most popular of the generals upwards of Tenpou in the chain of command, not to mention the petty political factions warring by subterfuge in Heaven’s government. There’s always something shady in the upper ranks, and well, that’s the price of having a sharp mind. It’s only a matter of time before someone realizes you see things, you hear things, and you understand too much because you have theories of your own before they can try to tell you what to think.

So he slips, just in case, into the infirmary to watch the medics tend to Kenren’s injuries. The most serious ones require attention first--that bone-deep gash where the creature nearly took off his right arm, the deep puncture wound in his left side surrounded by claw marks just above the hip, the damaged arteries. Kenren looks like something tore into him in preparation for a feast and Tenpou knows enough to understand how close a call this was for him. A buzzing voice behind his ear offers reassurances Tenpou doesn’t need. The next twelve hours will be critical; after that, Tenpou will claw into Kenren himself for not informing him when the order came.

Once Kenren is reasonably patched up and everyone leaves, Tenpou takes his time ungluing himself from the windowsill where he’d found a perch to stay out of the medics’ way. It seems to hold onto him, as though he’s been sitting on a strip of honey because when he tries to stand, everything from his body to his clothing gives him undue resistance.

There’s nothing about Kenren that suggests he’s alive sans the rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin sheet, but it’s something, and it’s enough. Tenpou brings a book to fend off the rage and keep himself occupied. Since there’s no question as to where he’ll be spending the night, he might as well secure a modicum of comfort.

The first hours are calm in this infuriating way, like waiting for the storm that looms overhead, promising rain and thunder yet failing to deliver.

Later, it gets worse.

*

No one is exempt from the ban on smoking inside the infirmary, not even the Field Marshal. Tenpou sneaks out for cigarette breaks in the interim between Kenren’s moments of semi-lucidity (in which he tries to speak but can’t seem to take a breath deep enough), for once careful not to get distracted and prolong his absence. There are nurses taking turns at checking on Kenren, administering anti-inflammatory concoctions and painkillers potent enough to knock down a horse at regular intervals. His injuries are starting to heal, if slowly, but he won’t be out of the woods until his fever goes down.

The matter is quickly classified as an unfortunate accident. While Tenpou wouldn’t appreciate bearing the brunt of guilt-mongering from above if it came to that, he can hardly stomach the way it’s swept under the carpet as if nothing happened. Stranger still, so far Goujun has gone suspiciously easy on him, to the point of not even expecting paperwork beyond the bare minimum required by the law.

He is still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

No time he spends by Kenren’s bedside is wasted; Tenpou catches up on his research of battle tactics in the North (he finds them brutish and mostly ineffective in the light of his own experience). There’s not much he can actually write in terms of his report concerning Kenren’s adventures; until Kenren is conscious long enough to question him about it, his knowledge is limited to what he learned from the Ants.

“Orders stated it was an emergency, sir,” Rihaku told him earlier that afternoon when Tenpou went to the canteen to see how the men were dealing. “We were to leave at once.”

“And was it?”

“Worse, sir.” Tenpou read more in his body language than in his verbal response. Rihaku dropped his gaze, working his knuckles like twigs. “We’ve never seen an abomination this horrible, and you know we’ve been facing a lot of them.”

Something in Tenpou’s mind purred with curiosity, but for now, he reminded himself to address first that which was at hand.

Rihaku took Tenpou’s pause the wrong way--of course. Feel guilty about something and you’ll be seeing blame laid at your doorstep no matter where you turn.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Rihaku cried. The voices in the canteen went eerily quiet. All heads turned in unison, like puppets bound with a single string. “I was too late. It’s unforgivable. I threw my tranquilizing gun to the General when he lost hold of his, not far enough, not fast enough, then we were out of bullets--”

“We all screwed up, let’s face it,” Kouken interrupted, with feeling, bolting up from the bench and standing at attention in front of his Marshal, sliding Rihaku a glance. “We didn’t hold the line. The fault is ours in equal measure.”

Other voices joined in before Tenpou could stop them, and then all the Ants were on their feet, surrounding him, the shame of failing to protect Kenren and the raw grief of losing four of their own entwined with hard resolve, an unfaltering readiness to accept punishment. Tenpou pushed his chair back and stood, nudged his glasses up with the knuckle of his forefinger and regarded each soldier in turn until their voices hushed.

“Now, now!” He laughed, softly, just once, but the Ants’ faces told him they weren’t quite sure what to make of it. “No one is blaming you,” he said, aiming for a tone of certainty he truly tried to feel.

He might not have missed the mark completely, although no, it wasn’t too far-fetched to assume that _someone_ would be looking for scapegoats eventually. If anyone was to blame it was actually Kenren, for thinking he was immortal and invincible to start with--but that wasn’t the right moment to publicize his inner commentary.

“General Kenren will be fine. I suggest you start practicing your formations with the numbers you have. I’m expecting readiness for duty by the end of the week.” He had half a mind to offer more reassurances, but “don’t worry” sounded too trivial, and “sorry for your loss” went without saying. 

“Marshal Tenpou?” Someone called as he turned to leave, his slippers clicking out an obnoxious rhythm in the quiet mess hall. “Permission to speak, sir?”

“Yes, Yuuan?”

“Are you planning to replace the--our--”

“They can’t be replaced,” Tenpou said, going somewhat against the first, more honest response his mind had supplied. “But I will consider recruiting to fill the vacancies, yes. As soon as General Kenren resumes his regular duties, we’ll be discussing that.”

*

It’s not until he finds a note under his door--condolences for the loss of his men written on Goujun’s official stationery--that Tenpou allows himself to stop and really let it in.

There’s nothing for him to say, except that underneath his anger, it _hurts_.

*

The second night is better, if not easier--far from it, in fact. Kenren looks less like a corpse and more like someone about to become one: his fever is still sky high, the sheets and bandages thoroughly drenched in sweat. The infirmary bed is hardly large enough to accommodate him; he thrashes on it with effort worth a better cause. Tenpou has to hold him down twice inside an hour; when he returns from a quick smoke break to find three nurses struggling to stop Kenren from aggravating his injuries, he decides to curb his tobacco cravings until the situation improves.

At dawn, Kenren’s fever breaks. Worn dangerously thin and irked by people asking about the last time he slept, Tenpou folds his arms on the edge of the bed, allowing himself a few minutes of rest as he listens to Kenren’s breathing.

He’s halfway through a mental revision of his report for Goujun, the one he’s been trying to compose in his head since last afternoon, before flesh wins over mind and he surrenders to the need for sleep.

When he wakes with a start two hours later, it is only with a vague sense of something inevitable breathing down his sore, stiff neck.

*

Kenren's first lucid words form a question which, while not surprising, is not exactly what Tenpou would have bet he'd hear.

"Did I kill it?" he asks. "Tell me I killed the damn thing."

“Making you kill the creature was probably the key part of this plot, if it failed to kill _you_. You’re no war god, Kenren. You wouldn’t be here if they found you guilty of murder.”

Kenren looks at him like the words are flying over his head, and considering he’s clinging to awareness by a thread, it might as well be so. "You didn't manage to violate Heaven’s ban on killing. No need to worry, General. And the men did a splendid job in the field. They actually thought you were dead. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing."

"That right there--might be the most fucked up thing you’ve ever said," Kenren tells him in a voice that can't decide if it's confused, outraged or amused in a morbid sort of way. "Don’t want to know what gave you that idea."

"Oh, that's simple, really.” Tenpou twirls a cigarette between his forefinger and his thumb, itching to light up. “It's a strong incentive, you know. The desire to avenge you made them stronger, faster. A wonderful boost to efficiency, when you consider it."

The events of three days ago rush back to Kenren then; it's evident in the way his face changes color from ashen to white, in how adrenaline floods his system and his body jerks up. He winces as he falls back; he can’t hold himself in an upright position just yet.

"Aw, shit. It's blurry," he admits. Beads of sweat shine on his forehead around the bandage there. "We're all back in one piece, aren't we?"

Tenpou has no issues with things that make most people squirm; delivering bad news was always something of a specialty. It seems to not apply to telling Kenren now that the unit is four men short; he's not sure what steals his words, but whatever it is, it's stuck like a lump in his throat. He looks away for half a second until he remembers that's not the way he deals with things, not even when they're this difficult for someone to hear.

"Who?" Kenren asks, and his voice is thin, like it's not actually his.

"Qian. Jirou. Riku. Yori." Tenpou pauses after each name to let it sink in. It might be trying to hit him again, too, but he wards off that feeling and levels a steady look at Kenren instead.

"No." The way Kenren says it strikes an uneasy chord. Kenren is known to make light of things, and when he can't, he gets angry--not bitter. Certainly not defeated. "You got that wrong, Tenpou. Quit pulling my leg. I don't lose men." He is shaking his head like it could undo the chaos there. “I don’t.”

"It would seem that you do."

The answer spurts from Tenpou's mouth before he can think better of it. It’s in the nature of kami to be arrogant, and in Tenpou’s to be blunt, but he curses himself anyway when he meets that raw, helpless look he never wants to see on Kenren's face. He’s a good person, that one, with a soft heart. It’s why the men adore him, but he suffers from the loss all the more for that very reason.

It helps little that Kenren knows he's sorry; Tenpou hopes it's obvious in the way he holds Kenren's panicked gaze and wills his face to don a comforting expression. It’s not as easy as he makes it look--the slow rage boiling just beneath the surface puts up a good fight before he can fake it. Kenren looks like someone who wakes from a nightmare to find out it was real, and Tenpou knows he’s desperately clinging to that small part of him that won’t believe anything he hears.

Soon enough, he will.

Neither of them is up to their usual standard. Tenpou rises, notes the weight he can't shake still pulling him down, and dismisses it even as he puts his hand on top of Kenren's. A small shudder electrifies him at the feel of bandages where the other night there was warm, familiar skin. He dismisses that, too.

 _That’s what you get for going in unthinking,_ he wants to point out, and Merciful Goddess, the words are burning on his tongue. _That’s what happens when you play the hero, like you’re the only one who can pull it off._

He keeps the comments to himself. After all, he’d be one to talk.

*

Tenpou returns later that evening with food treats and contraband sake, a jar-turned-ashtray tucked under his arm. To hell with restrictions; he sets the snacks on the table beside Kenren’s bed and waves a new pack of cigarettes in front of the other’s face.

“They were good men,” he tells Kenren once they’ve both appeased their want for nicotine. Even if the words change nothing, maybe they mean something to at least one of them. “Loyal. Proud to fight beside you.”

“Mmh. Butter it up, Marshal,” Kenren says, his speech careless, slurred. “There’s no better use for your tongue than spouting poetic bullshit.”

Tenpou gives him a surprised glance. In a day or two, if that cold, bitter tone is still there he might have to resort to less subtle ways to weed it out. For now, he settles for silence. Kenren can’t quite think past the fact that someone dared to sacrifice themselves to save his life, and that, Tenpou knows, will never sit well with him. There’s no talking him through the things he needs to work out on his own. That’s fine.

If all he can do is wait, then he will.

He eases himself into the chair by the window from where he can check on Kenren just by lifting his eyes while keeping enough distance they both seem to need. He picks a book from the pile on the windowsill that’s somehow grown in just three days to a stack of twelve, adjusts his glasses and, by the time he turns to page sixty nine, Kenren is asleep again.

*

He finds Commander Goujun in the sakura grove behind the Jade Emperor’s Palace. There are questions he needs to ask that are better not voiced where the walls have ears.

“It is indeed unfortunate that the situation should turn so grave in the absence of the Toushin Taishi,” Goujun tells him. “Perhaps the First Unit of the Western Army requires assistance in the future missions.”

Tenpou grits his teeth for a bit before he’s able to express himself properly. He knows exactly how far he can push the Dragon King’s boundaries before he crosses them, and doing so wouldn’t further his agenda at this stage.

“Perhaps,” he says, slowly, deliberately, “the First Unit needs not to be misinformed about the scale of the mission before embarking on it. Also,” he adds, and it takes a good portion of his self control to keep his tone polite, “it might be advisable to inform its Field Marshal about it so he can decide how to proceed.”

This uncovers a side of Goujun’s that doesn’t surface too often, in Tenpou’s experience. “I was under the impression that you _were_ informed,” he says, incredulous. "This--You were certainly meant to be."

Before his temper claims the better of him, Tenpou’s mind has the grace to notice a gaping discrepancy and point it out to him. He takes a seat next to Goujun without waiting for an invitation. It does earn him a glare but then again, it’s been ages since he needed one.

“Someone planned this to eliminate General Kenren,” he says. “Why?”

By the way Goujun’s not looking at him, Tenpou entertains a nasty suggestion that he was in on this. But then the Dragon King turns and his piercing crimson eyes drill straight through him.

“General Kenren is a reckless man. I seem to remember warning you about the peculiarities of his character.”

“He’s also the kind of man who would try to kill the creature to protect his Unit, and then shoulder all responsibility so as not to incriminate anyone but himself. That was one way to do it. Smart move, I admit. I suppose the only reason it didn’t actually work was due to to poor timing.”

“General Kenren is a lucky man, then,” Goujun says vaguely.

Tenpou sighs. Goujun’s dislike of Kenren is yesterday’s news, and his reasons are largely, if not entirely, of a personal nature. If that was enough to put Goujun behind that kind of scheme, it would have happened long ago.

“Who authorized the dispatch?” Tenpou asks, figuring there has been enough small talk.

Goujun’s face is hard, as are his eyes. “I am not inclined to disclose any information that might put you on a self-destructive course, Marshal Tenpou.”

So now it comes to that. “You, then,” Tenpou says, deceptively light. The fury inside him is beyond the point of boiling by now. “So the question is who made sure I wasn’t informed in time to react.”

Goujun jerks back like he’s calling up a mental shield to protect his thoughts from Tenpou’s intrusion; a futile reaction, really--if he weren’t this angry he’d find it quite amusing.

“I know this wasn’t your idea. It’s not how you handle such things. It came from above, didn’t it? Give me the name, Goujun,” Tenpou insists quietly, though there’s no one around to hear and be dismayed by his lack of proper form of address. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for teaching Kenren a lesson for taking reckless action on his own. But let me be clear about something, and let me put it for you in dragon terms: this is _my_ territory, and I protect what’s mine.”

Goujun glances away to the overhanging branches of a sakura tree, to the fluttering petals landing at his feet, between the folds of his stark white uniform.

“Your loyalty is commendable, Marshal.” He stubbornly refuses to drop the official title and call Tenpou by his name in private encounters. He hasn’t done that since their parting, and how long ago was that, again? “I regret to say I am unable to grant your request, but I cannot afford to lose you should your actions endanger your standing the way General Kenren’s have.”

Goujun doesn’t squirm, doesn’t yield under Tenpou’s stare, though by Mercy, he’s glaring at the dragon with all he’s got and gets the same intensity in return. The conversation yields _something_ , even if it’s not what he was hoping for. Tenpou rises from the bench. It’s far too easy to pretend not to notice the brush of Goujun’s hand on the tail of his lab coat.

“I’ll find out anyway, you know,” he says into the open space stretching out before him. “Ah, but you do, of course. And then I’ll raise hell worthy of this Heaven.”

Behind him, the Dragon King floats up from his seat but doesn’t take a step.

“Tenpou.”

The sound of his name actually startles him. It’s the way it trembles on Goujun’s pale lips, the way it once did.

“Don’t be a reckless man.”

*

The seal on the orders _was_ Goujun’s, which is the least surprising part of his investigation so far. Tenpou wonders briefly if someone tampered with it before it reached Kenren but there’s no way to check; Kenren had it on him when they rushed to the Lower World, and it must have got lost somewhere in the commotion when he got ripped into by the creature he attempted to subjugate. It gets trickier from there: no one is willing to talk, fearing the man behind it more than Tenpou’s threats.

There’s a number of less official ways to get the information out of them. The… whatever-he-and-Kenren-are-to-each-other part of him would have reached for them twice over by now, but the tactician in him knows when it’s too early to reveal his hand.

He stops to order a new uniform for Kenren on his way back to the infirmary; the one he wore to battle is beyond repair. Kenren won’t be needing it yet, but it feels good to do something towards restoring the normal state of affairs.

Of course, nothing is quite the same.

“Now, you’d better have a good answer to this,” Tenpou says, closing the door behind him. “Since when do you take the unit _anywhere_ without informing me?”

“Thought you knew. The messenger said you got called to Goujun’s den,” Kenren tells him, squinting like he’s working hard through the haze obscuring his memory. “Said there were emergencies in three remote locations and you were off to come up with a strategy.”

Tenpou grips the door handle so hard his knuckles turn white. How convenient, his thoughts sneer even as he puts honest effort into distracting himself from _really wanting_ to tear into Kenren for falling for that. He wills himself to relax his grip but he doesn’t move an inch from his spot. 

“The messenger,” he asks. “Who was he?”

“Some kid.” Kenren is, quite likely, aware of what exactly the lack of detail is doing to Tenpou’s already sour mood. “Don’t tell me, I know. Or actually, go for it. Rip me a new one, Marshal, it might loosen that stick you got up your ass while I was passed out.”

“Please excuse me while I look for one to stick up yours so you can have some notion of what it takes to figure out what you stirred up this time.”

“C’mon, you enjoy it,” Kenren mocks good-naturedly, but then he drops the attitude and puts him to close inspection. “You seriously think someone’s after me.”

“Eh.” Tenpou falls still for a beat, listening. “Maybe. Depends on what you did to attract this sort of attention. You seem to have struck a nerve somewhere, Kenren. I’m curious to find out whose.”

“Didn’t bed anyone’s wife, for whatever that’s worth.”

Tenpou glares, careful to keep to himself the fact he’s actually pleased. He’s not as territorial as he would have Goujun think--certainly not the dragon-level of possessiveness--but Kenren had _better not_ , for reasons entirely unrelated to his military career.

“Can’t think of anything,” Kenren adds, taking Tenpou’s silence as his cue to continue explaining himself. “Preemptive measures, maybe. Or maybe someone’s jealous of my fabulous ass.”

A knock on the door interrupts Tenpou’s response. Two young nurses poke their heads in at Kenren’s encouragement, and then he’s grinning in an utterly shameless way as he winks at them and waves his good hand towards the open door.

“Bath, at last,” he says with glee that looks almost real. “If I may be excused, Marshal. Can’t look indecent in front of my superior officer.”

*

“Ow, this actually _hurts_! If you could touch me more gently--aw, not like that! It hurts lower, too.”

The nurse on the evening shift blushes fiercely, hard pressed to focus on finishing up dressing Kenren’s side wound, quick apologies spilling from her pretty mouth. Tenpou looks up from the book in his lap, observing the scene over the rim of his glasses and he can't help but smirk.

“There’s a curious military custom in some parts Down Below. They put salt on the wounds to prevent infection,” he says pleasantly. “If I were you, I’d be careful about complaining.”

When the nurse leaves, Kenren sets himself to the (still taxing, from the looks of it) task of eating the instant ramen Tenpou brought him earlier. “I heard,” he says over a mouthful, “you ruffled a bunch of feathers up there.”

In Tenkai, where boredom is people’s most painful affliction, rumors spread faster than disease. The good part is, Tenpou did manage to get _some_ of what he wanted. It was admittedly a challenge to keep from punching faces or, actually, bringing his sword along to the investigation, but so far, he has managed to refrain.

Tenpou grins at his thoughts, earning a lifted eyebrow.

“It’s not supposed to be funny!” Kenren chides, and it’s almost-- _almost_ \-- like any other day. “Even if it kind of is. If both of us get in trouble, who’s gonna bust me out of jail?”

“You could start from trying not to get yourself thrown in there to make it easier for both of us,” Tenpou tells him, amused.

“Can’t really promise that.” The fist Kenren slams backwards into the wall next to his own head doesn’t bode well. “You got to report this whole mess to Goujun for me, didn’t you? He didn’t bother to come here. There’s my neverending lucky streak.”

“I don’t mind. It’s my job to deal with it. Besides, the mission wasn’t technically a failure from our superiors’ standpoint.” The success might have been greater from that same perspective if Kenren hadn’t returned, but, well. If Tenpou has anything to say about it, which he _does_ even if he says so himself, Tenkai won’t silence either them without giving all it’s got to earn it. “Another day in Paradise, eh?”

Kenren wilts like a fallen leaf, one part fury, two parts sorrow. This, too, is what happens to soft-hearted people, Tenpou thinks.

“You have to let it go,” he says. “Some General told me once: no good ever comes from getting stuck in the dark. Granted, that was when the lights in my room went out and he nearly broke his leg walking in, but it _does_ apply to this situation perfectly."

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The number of cigarette butts in the jar argues otherwise, as does the new one, freshly lit, stiff between Kenren’s lips.

"Doesn't feel right to let it go just like that,” he says after a long pause.

“Ah.” Tenpou can't remember what he meant to say even as he realizes he's not really here. Even now his mind is chewing on the facts; the orders changed hands at least four times before reaching Kenren, but the original source has eluded him so far. And even once that turned up, it was not outside the realm of options--

"Oi, Tenpou! Stop drifting off on me like that!"

What was he...? Oh, of course. _That_. “Perhaps we should have this conversation when your brain is fully operational.”

“My head’s fine.” Kenren taps his left temple like it proves his point. “Yours has a problem if you’re saying what I think you’re saying.”

“I rather believe I'm not. _Let it go_ means _don’t hold it_ , not _forget it ever existed_.”

Kenren looks at him like he fails to understand, or maybe he simply refuses to try. It’s all Tenpou can do to flash him a fake smile and return to his reading, before he _strangles_ him for letting his heart bleed into his brain.

*

It’s one dead end following another, after a while.

He traces the last messenger back to Li Touten's circle after some serious digging--his closest henchman, it turns out--they both swear to all things holy that there was no mention of leaving Tenpou out of the information loop. Odd that this man should meddle in the army affairs to such an extent, but it’s valuable information nonetheless.

Tenpou makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on him. Something about Li Touten screams of overachievement; even the way he speaks makes Tenpou feel sick.

By now there are conflicting rumors doing rounds throughout the military circles, some daring to suggest that Tenpou abandoned the First Unit in some ill-conceived scheme to put Kenren to test. The Ants are itching to set it straight by beating the living daylights out of Enrai and his men, but Tenpou only grits his teeth as he orders them, in no uncertain terms, to leave it alone.

Somewhere along the line… an omission, a white lie, a careful slip of the tongue… and in the chaos that ensued, Kenren and his men walked into a trap. Tenpou knows enough to see purposeful action when he’s looking at one, almost enough to point fingers, but not enough to prove it if it came to court-martial.

Ah well. Neither he nor Kenren will make the same mistake twice.

This leaves just one thing for him to do, for now.

*

“I brought you something.” Tenpou dumps the contents of a box with a sticker on the lid that says ‘visual aids’ into Kenren’s lap, ignoring the yelp of surprise.

“So _this_ is what happens when you finally crack? Did you spend the entire morning plucking a sakura tree clean?”

The remark goes in one of Tenpou’s ears and out the other without making a pause. Kenren’s uniform pants are pink with petals; satisfied, Tenpou tosses the box aside. “It took me a while to pick them up. I tried to be gentle with them. I think I managed quite well.”

“But they’re dead. They're not keeping these good looks for long. What’s the point of bringing them here?”

“Precisely!” Tenpou claps his hands. “There’s no point at all.”

“Throw them away then! Or put them back where you picked them. Whatever."

Tenpou laughs, softly, waggling his forefinger. “It’s not my head that requires decluttering.”

“What?” Kenren glares at him like he’s lost his mind. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Put them in your pocket for the rest of the week,” Tenpou tells him, amused at the expressions alternating on his General’s face. “We’ll get back to them later.”

“You’re crazy.”

“So they say.” Tenpou smiles, and it is both wicked and hopeful this time. “That’s an order, soldier,” he warns even as Kenren moves his good arm to shake the petals onto the floor, his open palm hovering above his knee. “Please do as I asked.”

“Yessir,” Kenren barks out with the poorest mockery of a respectful tone Tenpou has ever heard from him and considering Kenren’s well-earned reputation, that’s saying a lot. “Your wish is my command.”

*

They hold the ceremony for the fallen Ants two days later, delayed at Tenpou’s request so that Kenren can attend. On his part, Tenpou could live with Kenren not forgiving _him_ if it happened before he could join in, but he decided not to risk Kenren not forgiving himself. Hard to trust a general with that kind of mental debris, even if it’s Kenren Taishou, the only one in Tenkai he comes close to trusting.

It’s evident that Kenren shouldn’t be out of bed so soon after very nearly getting shredded to death; his pale face is all careful focus as he struggles to hold himself upright. He refuses the support of Tenpou’s shoulder until the service is over and he has paid the men his respects in the manner worthy of a leader and a fellow soldier: back straight, chin up, chest out, his new uniform jacket flung over his shoulders to accommodate the bandages beneath.

Nothing serves as a better reminder that the kami have no clue how to approach the subject of death than watching them pretend the gathering in the courtyard isn’t happening. It’s not supposed to happen--death, that is--and like all unthinkable things, when it happens it messes with everyone’s idea of reality.

Kenren puts up a good show for their Unit’s sake until the Ants return to their duties; only then he finally lets Tenpou help him to the nearest bench. He winces in agony and tries to laugh it off even as Tenpou has to hold him up while he takes a seat. He grunts something about destroying his image. Tenpou cheerfully ignores him.

‘’I’ll be damned,” Kenren says with a chuckle, but it’s a tired, hollow sound. “The way you’re doting on me, why am I not all better yet?”

“Well, it will take anywhere from three to five weeks before--”

“Wasn’t asking for the recovery prognosis,” Kenren cuts in. “Already got that from the annoying surgeon. But the nurses were real babes this time. You’re totally to blame for scaring them off.”

“The recovering patient should refrain from getting too excited.” Tenpou shoots him a glance from under the fall of his unruly hair. Kenren, he notes, looks better with some color that isn't a bruise back in his face. “I was worried you would tear those stitches. I’m sure you understand.”

Kenren laughs as if he has never heard _that_ argument before. It still seems like a poor idea--his laugh dissolves into a painful cough. “Out there,” he says once he has caught his breath, pressing the flat of his palm to his side, “it wasn’t so bad. Like you could think, y’know, it can’t be bad ‘til you can smell your own guts.”

“You weren’t very far from that,” Tenpou points out. He remembers the stench too well, before the medics stitched Kenren’s insides back together; he remembers the blood, and he finds that he can’t hold those images in his mind.

It’s easy to let them go, because Kenren is here. Because he’s alive.

*

They take a long time returning to their quarters, owing only partly to Kenren’s condition. Tenpou thinks better of the idea to try and escort him back to the infirmary--it’s not a battle worth fighting today. Kenren looks grateful when Tenpou takes him to his office-turned-library instead, gently guiding the way with his hand at the small of Kenren’s back. He could offer Kenren his bed--almost anything would be better than Kenren’s couch in his dormitory room--but then, he knows from experience that no bed will be comfortable for him for a while, and what he _can_ offer is his company to go with a bottle of sake.

“Just how fast can you wreck this place?” Kenren asks fondly, not bothering with reproach. He sounds more like himself; Tenpou files the less-than-subtle Kenren-handling methods away for if he needs them later, and hopes he never will. "It's gotta be your special power, I swear."

“It’s just books,” he says. “Mostly, that is.”

Well, true, he does need to clear a path to the couch before Kenren can sit down, but frankly, no problem there. Though he likes Kenren’s tidying hand applied either to his room or to himself, _this_ is what the space feels like at its best.

“Mess,” Kenren reiterates.

“Well, you helped me make it. Last--” Not last night, of course. Five nights ago, Tenpou realizes, which only serves to help him notice how much of a blur the past days have been. “--time you were here,” he finishes, a touch too awkwardly in his own opinion.

“Won’t help you clean it, not for a while,” Kenren says as he attempts to reposition himself without much success. “Here’s hoping you don’t get smothered ‘til I can use my arm again.”

“I wonder how I ever survived without you,” Tenpou says innocently, earning a glare and a snort.

“Don’t know about that, but I sometimes wonder if you lived.”

It’s a punch dealt out for one received, but it gives Tenpou a pause anyway. He nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose to hide the smile pressing onto his lips.

“Mmhh--need a hand here.”

Kenren is looking up at him, an unlit cigarette poking expectantly from his mouth. “Lighter’s gone. Missing in action, I s'pose.”

“Ah--I think I may be able to help with that.”

Tenpou delves into the bottom drawer of his desk and comes up a moment later. “It’s been here forever,” he says, holding out his hand. “I forgot all about it. Here.”

“Well done, Marshal.” Kenren picks the brand new Zippo from Tenpou’s open palm, flips it open and lights up. His eyes drift shut as he takes that first drag and Tenpou understands. Those moments are good, so good to remember that they’re alive.

“What’s that in your pocket?” he asks even as Kenren moves to put the Zippo away.

Kenren slides his hand there, then pulls it out, a curious look on his face. “Something that was pretty once,” he says, sounding strange. “Now it’s just plant pulp. Care to share the purpose of this experiment?”

Briefly, Tenpou considers pulling Kenren along until he stumbles on the correct conclusion on his own, but he can’t be sure how long _that_ might take and it’s been far too heavy lately for both his comfort and his taste. So he takes Kenren’s hand, traces a ghost of a line across his wrist with two fingertips, then leans over to tease the same spot with a kiss. When he’s sure he has Kenren’s full attention, his own palm lands on top of Kenren's and lingers there for a while, until Tenpou starts brushing his hand clean of the wilted sakura bits.

“If you hold something that should have been buried too long, it turns ugly, twisted out of shape.” He looks up, but Kenren’s eyes are half-closed, trained on the tangle of their hands. “The longer you hold it, the farther it departs from its original form until, eventually, you can’t even tell what it was.”

Though Tenpou is well in the right to expect a smart-ass comeback, Kenren remains quiet, and in the long stretch of silence the rigid tension drains from his form to make way for his usual easy grace. The shift is almost palpable. Tenpou sighs with relief.

Eventually, Kenren frees his hand and tugs at the lining of his pocket. “That’s when it soils your pants,” he says with a grin, and suddenly it’s clear they’re having two very different conversations going on simultaneously.

“Or your head,” Tenpou adds. “The bigger one.”

"Hey, um.” Kenren gives him a slanted look and a lopsided smile, the honest kind. “‘Scuse the trouble. And thanks. I owe you."

Tenpou smiles back. This time it reaches his eyes. "I'll be sure to collect," he says. "You are quite welcome."

Kenren rests his head against the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling for a longer while. He’ll work it out. He always does. Even if they walk the thinnest line, Tenpou thinks, there’s always just enough wiggle room between the two of them to keep things in balance.

He keeps that thought to himself.

“Ah, damn.” Kenren lifts his hand up to his face for a closer inspection, rubbing the dead petals thoughtfully in his fingers. “They’ll give me one hell of a scolding in the laundry room for this.”

“Second pair of pants within a week. Don’t worry.” Tenpou grins. “We’re both blacklisted by now.”

They laugh together and don’t say much at all. Tenpou brings a flask of sake and they share it in companionable silence, and they finish Tenpou’s stash of his favorite cigarettes before dusk falls warm and lovely outside.

When Kenren’s breathing turns into soft snores, Tenpou extracts himself, then the half-empty flask from under his good arm and sets it away on his desk. There’s a pile of paperwork so high it threatens to topple over; requests, letters, notices. The four new titles thick enough they could double as weapons, the ones he brought back from the Lower World the week before, beckon to him.

Luckily, there’s always tomorrow for that.

It’s an afterthought, but he picks his old blanket--rough but warm, standard military issue--off the floor and throws it over Kenren’s slumbering form before he sinks into his chair and pets the topmost hardcover with a satisfied grin. Kenren makes small noises in his sleep, just like he sometimes does late at night when Tenpou accidentally elbows him. The way his eyes are moving beneath shuttered eyelids tells him Kenren is dreaming.

Deep darkness has long settled outside when Tenpou looks up from his reading, and in the smudged windowpane the reflection he sees brings back a foggy memory. There was a great flood in his dream that night when Kenren was last here, and they were on a lifeboat somewhere out at sea, holding on and going with the flow. And then the currents shifted and they rode the wave until it washed them both onto a strange new shore, in the world Below.

Mm. Food for thought.

Tenpou drifts off at some point, when he stops resisting and a week's worth of weariness catches up with him. Not long afterwards a loud thud startles him out of his light sleep. He needs a moment to reorient himself; Kenren is still asleep on his couch, and the noise was nothing but the heavy volume hitting the floor at his feet. 

When he reaches to pick it up, a small, nondescript piece of paper slides out.

 _Be careful,_ says the note, scribbled inside in Goujun's elegant hand. _You're treading on ice._

That night he dreams he’s dying. Something tells him it’s time, that he has done enough, and his one regret is not knowing where Kenren is so they can share a smoke.

It feels like a new beginning.

***

  


_November 19-28, 2013 _

  


  


**Additional note about the canon divergence:** No canonical Ants of Heaven were hurt or killed while writing this fic. :) Since I had this idea and wanted to write a story about it, for this purpose I assumed the First Unit might have consisted of more members originally. In any case, it's just a what-if scenario that intrigued me.


End file.
